


missing pieces

by thatdarkhairedgirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-10
Updated: 2008-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-10 09:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatdarkhairedgirl/pseuds/thatdarkhairedgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can't have one without the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. gone

He keeps his eyes on the treetops when they lower her into the ground. If he looks down he feels he may break; simply shatter and crumble into dust only to be whisked away by the breeze. He refuses to look up at the sky, because that’s clichéd and overwrought and he knows Hermione would have rolled her eyes at the sheer _drama_ of it. There is a hand on his shoulder, but really doesn’t feel it. He hears sobbing all around him, but that isn't real, either. It is as if he has been plucked from his life, from his couch _(half asleep, listening to the Wireless, eating crisps and making a mess and not really caring too much) _, and dropped down into this somber scene.__

__He feels detached and immersed at the same time, in the world but not of it. He thinks of boring days at The Wheeze, spinning around in George's office chair until the colors run, and then standing suddenly, feeling his feet so firmly on the ground, and his head, light and wobbly. This is how he feels now, standing at the lip of the open grave. He runs a finger along the cuff of his suit and wishes he were dead._ _

__Later - much later - when he’s buried her in his heart, he watches a different girl walk towards him down the aisle. Harry gives him a sad, slow smile from his seat, and Ron remembers his words from years ago and reminds himself that he made a promise not to give up, not ever. This new girl is not his girl, and never will be _(he knows that, of course he does)_ , but he loves her and he figures _(he hopes)_ that it’s enough. They lie in bed on their honeymoon and he sinks his face into her hair _(straight and blonde and just not **right** )_ and breathes in its unfamiliar smell slowly, closing his eyes to the unfairness of it all._ _

__Their only child moves out years later, and he leans against the door frame watching her car turn the corner. His body feels electric, like he’s been hit with some unseen current, and he itches to run after her. When he turns away, his wife is standing with her back to him, gray in her hair and hands at her sides, and he feels upon himself all the emptiness of their home. They move into a smaller house, but it still feels large around them._ _

__Sometimes he thinks about Hermione, but the memories are faded and torn around the edges, like photographs handled too often. He imagines the life they would have had, the people they would have become, and has to sit down, overcome and homesick for a place he’s never been. His grief has followed him all these years and he treats it like an old friend; inviting it in and making it comfortable. He startles himself awake some nights, feeling in his heart all the spaces that won’t ever be filled._ _

__When he dies, sitting in his favorite chair, a glass of milk beside him, he feels no pain. His eyes are heavy and then suddenly they are not, and he is standing on the banks of the river he played in as a kid. He turns, feeling the youth of his body, his red hair tickling his collar, and sees a house in the distance. He walks to it, his heart a hammer in his chest, and walks through the open front door._ _

__She is sitting in the living room surrounded by her books, fingers stained with ink, her long hair dark brown and unruly around her. She looks over her shoulder; a smudge of black ink on her cheek from where she pushed her hair back, and grins at him. He thinks of her here, in this home _(their home)_ , writing and reading and waiting for him. All this time, he has thought of her - carrying her with him always - living his life as best he could._ _

__When his eyes finally meet hers, he can’t do anything but smile._ _


	2. here

She squeezes her eyes shut when they lower him into the ground. She wants to look elsewhere – at the trees, the mourners, the cloudless sky above them– anything but the coffin before her. She refuses to open her eyes, because if she keeps them closed she can lie to herself and say she was _brave_ , say she was _there_ , say that she stayed _strong_ and _stoic_ and _did not cry_. There is sobbing all around her, friends and family, but she can't hear them. Ginny tightens her grip on her hand, but she barely feels it. It feels as though she's been plucked from her life, from her bed _(half asleep, turning the pages of a book and not really reading the words, rain falling on the window in a steady rhythm that makes her drowsy)_ and dropped down into this solemn scene. It doesn't seem real. It can't be real.

If Ron was still alive, he would have slung his arm around her shoulders. Would have held her close, dried her tears, taken her home and tucked her into bed. Would have kissed her forehead and told her that things would be better tomorrow. But Ron is in the box before her, and she wishes she were dead.

Later – much, much later – when he's only half-buried in her heart, she gazes at another man as she walks up the aisle, her father beaming on her arm. Ginny gives her a knowing smile from the altar and Harry nods slowly _(sadly)_ from his place in the crowd. This new man is not her man – not _their_ man – and never will be, but she loves him and she thinks _(she hopes)_ that this can be enough.

They lie in bed on their honeymoon and she buries her face in his neck, breathing in the smell of aftershave and the ocean _(not parchment, not grass, not wool, never again)_ and wishing this made her happier.

They have a son and a daughter, a dog and a yard and a garden and a fence. They both work at the Ministry and both their children are Ravenclaws, like their father. Hermione lies awake some nights, running over _policies_ and _contracts_ and _mortgage payments_ in her head. Her husband snores and her children chatter and the dog needs to go to the vet and how in all buggering _hell_ did she get so _old?_ She has grey in her hair and lines on her face and a ring on her finger for fifteen years, and she feels like she's been screaming in a crowded room, but no one has bothered to notice.

She takes the train to work one morning and misses her stop on purpose, wondering what it would be like to just not come back _(to live for herself, with no husband, no dog, no MummyMummyMummy! every ten damn seconds)_. In the end she goes home and owls in sick, spending the day curled up in bed and listening to the rain on the windows.

Sometimes she thinks about Ron, but the memories are faded and torn around the edges, like photographs handled too often. She tries to recall his face when she's lonely, or his voice, or the way his mouth felt on hers, but she can't. Ron is shrouded in the rosy glow of memory, parts added and taken away and she can never be too sure of the details. She tries to think of him as he was, to recall every inch of his face in crystal clarity, but it seems as though the harder she tries, the faster the pieces slip from her grasp. If there as one thing she wanted in the world, it would be to hear his voice again. Even if he was just arguing with her, flushed red in his ears and sputtering as he tried to prove his point. She'd give her left arm to hear him call her a "Know-It-All" just one more time.

When she dies, reading in her bed with _Hogwarts, A History_ propped up on her chest, she feels no pain. Her eyes are heavy and then suddenly they are not, and she finds herself standing in the middle of a great field, with nothing but sky and grass as far as she can see. She turns, feeling the youth of her body, her hair long and dark and falling past the shoulders of her jumper, and she twirls her fingers around the bushy curls she hated once upon a time. There's a building in the distance, and she walks to it, her fingers tingling in anticipation.

Ron catches her on the way, swooping down on a broomstick whooping and hollering and knocking her to the ground when he lands. There's dirt on his nose and his hair is windswept and wild, but he runs his hands through her hair and whispers her name over and over again in her ear.

He pulls her to her feet, grinning from ear to ear, and he takes her to a house in the distance. It is a cottage, really, small and comfy and big enough for two; there are roses on a trellis and books on the shelves and a Chudley Cannons poster framed in the front hall. Ron squeezes her hand, leading her around and showing her his home, giving her worried little sideways glances like he's afraid she won't like anything.

She thinks of him here, in his home _(in **their** home)_ , reading and flying and waiting for her. All this time, she has thought of him - carrying him with her always - living her life as best she could without him.

He holds her close and asks her if she's happy, and Hermione can't do anything but smile.


End file.
